As if on a mission to find the truth, he and Wag plunged head-on into Short’s criminal past and the boy freely admitted to three earlier arrests and two felony convictions. He had served five years in jail before straightening out his life. Now sober and God-fearing, he wanted to do what was right.
His story was that he had been in the Brunswick County jail awaiting trial when Junior arrived. They were cellmates for only a few days before being separated. He had liked Junior and, having nothing else to do, they’d talked a lot. Junior was devastated by his wife’s betrayal and that of his close friend, but he had no remorse for what he did. Didn’t he do what any man would have done? Junior said he had been suspicious and stopped by the house mid-afternoon as he was making deliveries. When he saw Son’s truck in his driveway, he knew it was trouble. Junior eased through the back door and walked into the den and heard noises from the bedroom. They had the place to themselves and were making no effort to be quiet. He grabbed a pistol from a drawer and kicked open the bedroom door. The sight of them all wrapped together made him crazy. Son yelled something stupid like “Wait, you don’t understand,” and was scrambling off the bed when Junior shot him twice. Eileen was screaming like an idiot and wouldn’t shut up, so he shot her too. He stood there for a long time, staring at their naked bodies as they bled and died and he didn’t care. He finally left and just drove around, trying to settle his nerves and not knowing what to do. The kids would be coming home from school. He should probably call the sheriff and get an ambulance out there. Somebody else would clean up the mess. He stopped at a bar for a couple of drinks to clear his head, and he just kept drinking.
Junior listened stoically, shaking his head slightly at Short and his lies. At one point he leaned over to Swoboda and whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”
Short stayed on script and was convincing. He had spent hours rehearsing his testimony with Wag and his assistants, had even sat in this very chair over the weekend with the courtroom doors locked and lawyers yelling questions at him. When Wag finally sat down and Swoboda rose for his cross-examination, Short took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay cool. He knew every question that was coming.
Swoboda hammered away at his criminal record, his time behind bars, his addictions. The pending charges against him had dragged on for almost fifteen months now. Was that because the prosecutor was waiting to see how he performed at trial?
No, of course not. Short wasn’t sure what was causing the delay. Sometimes the system just gets clogged up. Plus, Short was in the process of drying out and that took time. A successful recovery might positively impact his sentence.
Had Short been promised anything in return for his testimony? Leniency? Money?
Of course not. Short was telling the truth, so help him God. He was eager to serve his time and get on with his life, a changed man.
Had Short testified before and ratted on a cellmate?
No, never.
Actually, it was Short’s third trip to the witness stand, but his career as a serial snitch had not been discovered by Swoboda. The case had consumed the lawyer’s life for the past fifteen months and he was tired of it. The paltry fees paid by the State would cover only a fraction of his time.
—
The Brother. Wilton Mace sat in the front row, as close to his brother as possible. Behind him were a few members of their tribe, almost all related to the Mace family. Across the aisle, and across the deep divide that had splintered the Tappacola, sat the friends and relatives of Son Razko. There were other divisions and factions and most of the tribe stayed away.
Their tensions were of little concern to Wilton. As the brother of an innocent man, his role was simply one of support. There was nothing else he could do, nothing but sit there day after day bewildered at the travesty and the lies. He knew the truth: that his brother and Eileen were as happily married as any couple could be under their circumstances; that she was not one to fool around; that Son Razko was a good man who was devoted to Louise and their children; that Junior would go to his grave grieving the loss of his wife and friend; that the murders were carefully staged by criminals hell-bent on building a casino on Tappacola land. Standing in their way, though, were Son Razko and Junior Mace.
But Son and Eileen had not been murdered by one of their own. The Tappacola were perfectly willing to hold grudges, but they did not kill each other. No, the killers were from the outside, and they had pulled off what was becoming, day by day, the perfect crime.
The white man’s notions of justice were baffling. How can they allow a self-confessed and self-serving criminal like Todd Short to put his hand on their Bible, swear to God to tell the truth, and then spin such fantastic lies? What system of justice allows a seasoned convict to repeat statements he swears he heard in a jail cell the year before?
Wilton watched the faces of the jurors. Not only did they believe Short, they wanted to believe.
8
The eighth witness called by the State was Digger Robles, another jailhouse snitch. His criminal record was not quite as impressive as Todd Short’s, nor was his body art. He, too, wore a white shirt with a high collar and long sleeves; indeed, it was identical to the one worn by Short. Swoboda gave a passing thought to asking Digger if Wag Dunlap had found the shirts on sale. Almost all his tattoos were hidden, though one managed to crawl up his neck and evade the collar. Nonetheless, Digger cleaned up nicely and managed to seem relaxed as he prepared to unload an hour’s worth of fiction to the jury.
The only truth he told was his recollection of his two criminal convictions, three years in prison, and struggles with meth. Wag breezed him through these trifling preliminaries as if they were of absolutely no consequence. Then on to the story—and the truth! In testimony that was remarkably, and at times astonishingly, similar to Short’s, he told in great detail of his brief incarceration with Junior. The man was proud of what he had done. He had caught them in his own bed, popped them twice, stood his ground, and what the hell was the State of Florida doing dragging him to jail and to trial? If it had happened on Indian land, Junior would be hailed as a hero. He had shown not the slightest hint of remorse.
Swoboda leaned over to his client and asked, “Remember him?”
Junior whispered, “Maybe.”
On cross-examination, Swoboda managed to land a few punches when he haggled with Digger over his motives. If he had not been promised something, why was he testifying? Digger said he really didn’t want to testify, didn’t want to get involved, but he was an important witness because he had heard damaging comments. Swoboda reminded him that he’d spent considerable time behind bars and asked if he had ever heard anyone else admit to wrongdoing. When Digger said no, several of the jurors shook their heads in disbelief.
But, on the whole, it was a fine performance. When Digger left the witness stand, Wag Dunlap announced, “The State rests.”